Five Times Wales Didn't Know the Answer, and One Time He Did
by moonlighten
Summary: 1937-2008: Northern Ireland has a knack for asking very awkward questions. In Progress. Part 21 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

**1937; London, England**

For once, Scotland's return home isn't heralded by a loud slamming of the front door which reverberates throughout the entire house – a habit which has necessitated the relocation of the more delicate ornaments England once displayed in their hallway – but Northern Ireland's thin, piercing wail.

It's a sound that strikes Wales hard in some ancient part of his subconscious he had thought long dead, one which sends him flying from his desk without a care for where either his pen or chair falls, a blizzard of paper drifting to the floor in his wake.

By the time he stumbles downstairs, short of breath and heart thudding a rapid, agitated rhythm against his ribcage, Scotland has settled Northern Ireland on one of the sofas in the living room, and is observing him from the other with the sort of trepidation normally reserved for an unexploded bomb. Their faces are a matching shade of red, though only Northern Ireland's is wet, the last of his tears still trickling down his cheeks even though his sobs have died down to soft whimpers and the occasional muculent sniffle.

Wales hunches his body around the sharp pain panic has torn into his side, and braces one hand on the dresser whilst he struggles for sufficient air to gasp out, "What happened?"

Scotland blinks up at him slowly, brow furrowed, as though both the question and Wales' presence are a puzzle he's lacking some essential pieces for and thus struggling to solve. "There was a spot of bother," he says eventually, his gaze drifting back towards Northern Ireland, "at the park."

"What sort of bother?" Wales asks, anxiety undimmed.

Knowing Scotland's penchant for understatement, it could mean anything from a simple tantrum on Northern Ireland's part to a conflagration that has engulfed the rest of the city whilst Wales has been sitting in his bedroom unaware, trying to find the perfect phrase to describe how heavy the sky had looked when he drew back the curtains that morning.

"He got into a fight with another wee lad," Scotland says, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "Hit him over the head with his toy truck, and then they both started bawling."

Wales smiles with relief. If this is simply one of Scotland's usual overreactions to the sight of tears, then it's easily mended. Once their brother retreats again to clear his head – either to the seclusion of his own bedroom or away on yet another walk – as he doubtless will in short order, then Wales will make Northern Ireland a cup of sweet milky tea and reassure him that there's nothing wrong with crying every now and again, because he knows how comforting that would have been to hear when he was younger.

But, before that, there is still the matter of the truck to address. Wales crouches down in front of Northern Ireland so their eyes are almost on a level, and says, "You know you shouldn't hit people, North." It's a lesson that's proving difficult to teach, given the appalling example Scotland and England set in that regard, but one Wales persists with, because it would do much to further family harmony, he's certain, if one more of their number learnt to rely on his words rather than his fists to settle arguments. "I hope you apologised."

"Yes," Northern Ireland says emphatically.

"Good lad," Wales says, giving his little brother's bony shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Almost as an afterthought, he asks, "What were you fighting about, anyway?"

"Right," Scotland says, jumping to his feet, "I'm going to go put the kettle on."

The speed with which he disappears from the room leaves Wales with the suspicion that his offhand enquiry was a foolish one, because for all of Scotland's assertions that nothing frightens him, there are certain situations that he has always proven himself very cowardly in the face of; the kind that might, for example, make Northern Ireland's eyes start to dampen again.

That might provoke him to ask, "Why don't I have a mum?"

Exactly that sort of situation.

Unfortunately, Wales doesn't feel best equipped to handle it, either, because England had always dealt with the weans when their thoughts turned towards the metaphysical – as they invariably did at some point – and he had never had to ask himself. Leaving the question for England to answer on his return from the continent seems like a cruelty, however. A week's far too long to leave Northern Ireland speculating and fretting. At his age, it would probably feel like a lifetime.

They have, however, already had the discussion about death and how it means that a person can't ever come back after the family dog's recent and untimely demise from distemper. To say that their mother is dead isn't exactly a lie, and far simpler for Northern Ireland to digest, Wales thinks, than the truth.

"Not everyone has one," Wales says, warily watching Northern Ireland's face for any warning signs of imminent collapse into fresh upset. "Like Colin in The Secret Garden, remember? He only had Mr Craven."

"Scotland already told me that she's in heaven with Archie, but she went when you were all little boys so she never got to meet me." Northern Ireland's bottom lip does start to tremble slightly, but after biting down hard on it for a moment to still it, he manages to continue with a somewhat shaky: "George said Scotland must be lying because that can't happen."

It's no wonder Scotland always shies away from trying to clarifying this sort of thing if that's the best he can do, and probably explains why most of Wales' own questions of a similar nature were met with a smack to the back of the head and the demand that he keep such thoughts to himself. A simple deflection, always Wales' weapon of choice in difficult conversations, will be impossible now, it appears.

"Well, that might be true for human boys like George, but it's not the case for us, because…" Wales pauses, unsure how to articulate a difference that he's not even been able to figure out to his own satisfaction. It was far simpler when they could imagine that, no matter their primordial origins, they had somehow been created by the ancients in the same way that humans were. Northern Ireland, however, was seemingly born out of nothing more than potentiality and belief as Wales has begun to suspect that, ultimately, all of their kind had been.

If there's anything of their mother in Northern Ireland – and Wales is sure that there is somehow – it's likely little more than the faint wisps of their own memories, bound in tightly with everything else that came together to form him, because he and his siblings had absorbed all else that remained of her in the end.

"Because we're not human," he finishes, somewhat pathetically, when he decides that he'd likely just confuse Northern Ireland with such a vague, half-baked explanation. Anything more complex can wait until he's older. And England's home. "We just work differently."

Northern Ireland's eyebrows scrunch down low over his nose as he digests this equally ambiguous response. "I don't have a dad, either, do I?" he asks after a moment's contemplation.

Wales sighs heavily and shakes his head. If their mother's a conundrum, their father (or indeed fathers) is a problem so intractable that not even Alexander the Great's ingenuity could solve it; Northern Ireland's especially, given how convoluted England's own bloodline may be.

"If it helps," Wales says, "you could think of all of your people as your mums and dads, because they're the ones that made you most of all."

Perhaps. Wales isn't entirely certain of the veracity of that hypothesis either, but it had been a soothing thought for him after Ireland left him behind with Scotland, and all his hopes of maybe experiencing a kinder sort of care as he grew went with her. The wrinkling of Northern Ireland's nose suggests he doesn't care for the idea, though.

Northern Ireland starts to fidget then, jiggling his legs so that his feet thump against the base of the sofa, and biting on his thumbnail (a bad habit he's recently picked up from Wales himself, who's evidently no better a role model than Scotland); clearly agitated, and Wales begins to worry that he's only served to further upset his brother. Maybe he should have lied a little more.

"I know it might be difficult to understand, _bach_," he says softly, laying a hand on his brother's knee in an attempt to offer him some comfort, "but we're –"

"You are definitely my brothers, aren't you?" Northern Ireland blurts out, his short, skinny fingers wrapping tight and biting around Wales' wrist. "You and Scotland and England?"

That is something Wales knows instinctively he will have to lie about, however, or bend the truth a little, at least. It makes no odds either way, anyhow. It never has.

"Yes," he says. "Of course we are."


	2. Chapter 2

**1952; London, England  
><strong>

-  
>"We need champagne," England announces, clapping his hands together as he gets to his feet, "to wet the babies' heads."<p>

Wales can't help but laugh at the suggestion, and England's broad grin. He looks no less delighted than any proud new father might be, poised and ready to burst in to song at a moment's notice or distribute cigars to all and sundry.

"I'm not sure you do that with kittens, England."

"Nonsense!" England says, seemingly unconcerned by the intimation that he's perhaps behaving a little foolishly. "Why shouldn't we celebrate the miracle of life?"

_Because you were still cursing that particular miracle not even an hour ago,_ Wales thinks but can't bring himself to say, because it's been far too long since his brother last looked genuinely happy. It's a rare enough occurrence at the best of times, but lately it's become a practically mythical sight.

England nods, likely interpreting Wales' lack of rebuttal as tacit agreement, and then swivels on his heel, turning the beam of his smile on to Northern Ireland. "You can even have a small glass of it if you like, North."

Northern Ireland is apparently too engrossed by the kittens to notice he's being addressed – an impoliteness that, for once, England lets pass without correction – eyes avidly fixed on them as he edges ever nearer their basket, squirming across the kitchen floor on his stomach like a snake. A very dusty snake, by the looks of it; judging by the state of his short trousers, the front panels of his once brilliant white shirt are doubtless almost black by now. This, too, England fails to admonish him for, despite his ongoing crusade to nurture a greater respect for the state of his clothing in Northern Ireland.

"You shouldn't touch them yet," Wales says anxiously when he sees Northern Ireland tentatively reach out his hand. "Bonnie might be a sweetheart usually, but she'll be really protective of them right now. You don't want to get bitten."

Northern Ireland huffs out an irritated sigh, but nevertheless drops first his hand and then his head, which he pillows against his arms after crossing them. Wales is unconvinced that the warning will prove a dire enough threat to overcome further temptation, and so moves a step closer to his little brother in order to better keep a careful eye on him and his curious fingers. Bonnie watches his approach leerily, her large copper eyes wide and unblinking.

"I think we have a bottle left over from New Year's in the cellar," England muses, before bustling away on what is likely a Snark hunt, as Wales has a vague recollection of Scotland using that very champagne to toast the momentous event of a Wednesday falling between a Tuesday and Thursday.

England is gone to quickly for Wales to point that out, however, and as soon as the kitchen door slams shut behind his back, Northern Ireland asks, "Where do babies come from?" which puts paid to any thoughts of calling out after him, too.

Wales suspects the timing of that question may well have been deliberate.

"You know where they come from, _bach_. You just saw five kittens being born," he says, thankful now that England had insisted that Northern Ireland be present for the birth, which was probably intended to teach him exactly this lesson so that none of them actually had to deliver it verbally. It was how they had all learnt it, after all.

"They were all in her tummy," Northern Ireland says, his voice firm and assured. "And then they came out of her other bum."

"Her…" Wales automatically starts to correct Northern Ireland, but the word sticks hard at the back of his throat and refuses to be dislodged, even by a series of sharp coughs. "Yes. Quite," he finishes, hoarse and a little ashamed that his discomfort has lost him an opportunity to improve his brother's vocabulary.

Northern Ireland's eyes and mouth both narrow as he studies Bonnie's grey furred side. "But how did they get in there?"

Really, Wales should have expected that follow-up, yet it still surprises him sufficiently that he finds himself incapable of speech for a while. He desperately casts his mind back through the centuries, trying to dredge up what Scotland had told him when he first inquired about this very subject, but all he manages to net in the end is the entirely unhelpful 'you'll find out when you're older', which had remained the default reply he received for many, many years thereafter, as well.

England's approach with the weans was little better, because he enclosed each factual grain inside such a thick layer of metaphor that they'd all come away from the experience even less enlightened than before.

Wales will just have to find his own way, it seems.

A moment's careful consideration leads him to, "The daddy cat put them inside her." He underscores the words with a brisk nod, pleased that he seems to have happened across an answer that is ambiguous enough that he's not too embarrassed to voice it, yet still truthful.

Northern Ireland's brows dip a little lower. "How?"

Wales is severely tempted to say magic, but Northern Ireland was unconvinced by that as an explanation for how Father Christmas might negotiate their newly installed electric fire, never mind how telephones work, birds fly, or any other such difficult questions he seems to revel in springing on them precisely at times when they're unable to access a library.

"Well, he… He holds her very tightly, and…"

Wales' words and inspiration both dry up simultaneously. Surely, he thinks, there must be a book for this sort of thing? It would make things so much easier, because then the appropriate knowledge could be transferred in private, without the need for anyone to speak to or look at anyone else as they cogitated upon such delicate matters.

To Wales' surprise, Northern Ireland nods vigorously at his aborted sentence. "I saw Felix do that to Bonnie. England threw a shoe at him and yelled, 'fuck off, you mangy little shit'."

Wales has no doubts about that, given how angry their brother had been that his pedigree British Blue had been impregnated by a one-eared tom with a face like an old boot, but still: "I imagine he did, North, but that doesn't mean you should repeat it. When you're as old and ugly as England, you can use language like that, but not before, okay?"

Northern Ireland scowls at the admonishment, but concedes a somewhat sullen sounding agreement, nevertheless.

Wales pats the top of Northern Ireland's bowed head encouragingly before picking up the thread of their conversation again. "So, yes, that's how Felix and Bonnie made their kittens. It's much the same sort of thing with humans, too, except they don't tend to do it on top of fences and shed roofs."

Much to Wales' relief, Northern Ireland seems to have lost interest in the topic entirely, however, greeting the statement with little more than a dispassionate grunt. He stays silent then for so long that Wales starts to withdraw, thinking that his brother might prefer to be left on his own for a while.

The movement seems to startle Northern Ireland out of whatever thoughts he was lost in, though, and he asks, "Where did I come from, then? I can't have come from Mum's tummy because she was already in heaven. And you said that I don't have a dad..."

Wales wonders whether Northern Ireland has been gnawing on this for the past fifteen years, or if the birth of Bonnie's litter has simply brought it to the forefront of his thoughts again. Unfortunately, whichever it is, Wales is sure he's no more able to set Northern mind at ease now than he was then.

"I don't know," he has to reluctantly admit. "You just… appeared one day."

Northern Ireland pouts slightly. "That's what England said."

When they found him, Northern Ireland had been smaller than any of the weans had been when they were first discovered, but he wasn't newborn, either. He had clearly been growing somewhere – as someone – though where (and who) that might have been is something they have never been able to ascertain.

At first, they thought he must have been ripped from Ireland somehow, but as he aged, it became clear that they bear little resemblance to one another. They do share the colour of their hair, yet he has England's eyes and scrawny build, and, judging by the length of his legs, he might eventually have Scotland's height to go along with his strong chin. All of which suggests that they each played their own part in his creation somehow – Wales can see nothing of himself in the lad, but then again, he's often thought that there's probably not enough left of him nowadays that he could afford anything to give – but all of his other features are entirely his own. Whose they once were remains a mystery, however.

"Sorry, _brawd_," Wales says, shaking his head, "but there's nothing else I can tell you, either."


	3. Chapter 3

**3rd July, 1976; Margate, England**

-  
>Scotland returns from the ice cream van bearing two 99s and a disgruntled expression, but absent England.<p>

"Where's Arthur?" Wales asks, marking his place in his book with a ribbon of desiccated seaweed (scavenged from the high tide line by Northern Ireland, and then presented to him with the instruction it should be used for just that purpose) before setting it aside.

Scotland throws himself back down into his deckchair so heavily that Wales is surprised that its already frayed fabric and thin metal frame don't both give out entirely beneath him. "I clubbed him over the head with a rock and buried him in a sand dune," he says matter-of-factly.

The undamaged state of Scotland's knuckles, face and clothing all suggest that if he and England had had a disagreement, it hadn't turned physical, however. More than likely, they simply exchanged some harsh words – what on earth they might have found to argue about during the simple purchase of ice cream doesn't even warrant consideration, because there's nothing England does that Scotland can't find a way to take exception to, and vice versa – and England has stormed off to rant to himself and throw things into the sea until he calms down sufficiently so as to be something approaching tolerable company again.

Still, as it's no worse than might happen on any Saturday they hadn't been emotionally manipulated into spending as a family on Margate Sands instead of unsuccessfully trying to avoid one another in London, Wales simply remarks, "That's a shame," and reaches out to take his ice cream.

Scotland holds it a little closer to his chest, seemingly reluctant to hand it over. "These weren't free, you know. You owe me 15p."

Wales has to stand up in order to dig through the pockets of his shorts for the coins – although they're big enough to hold a couple of quid's worth of shrapnel, they don't also appear to have been designed with the easy admission of hands in mind – an awkward manoeuvre which prompts Scotland to turn his attention towards the struggles of a rather ambitious but somewhat misguided seagull who has alighted nearby and is trying to carry off a discarded sandwich almost half its size. Bare legs, Scotland seems to believe, are only to be permitted beneath kilts, and the level of offence he demonstrated upon first seeing Wales' choice of outfit that morning was far better suited to a decision to go naked for the day. Even in the stifling midst of what is apparently the hottest British summer since records began, both Scotland and England are still clad in shirts and trousers. England has at least rolled up his sleeves in deference to the weather, but Scotland hasn't even undone the button at his collar.

Wales' efforts eventually net him a couple of clammy ten pence pieces, which he presses into his brother's free hand, receiving his ice cream and a faintly disgusted look in return. His change is not forthcoming.

The cone is already sticky with rivulets of melted ice cream and strawberry sauce, and the Flake is listing at a precarious angle, in danger of losing its mooring completely. So he doesn't risk forfeiting it to an opportunistic seagull, Wales plucks the chocolate bar out and rests it on the arm of his deckchair for later. (Though not too much later, as it too is quickly surrendering both shape and consistency to the heat.)

"What the hell's the bairn up to?" Scotland asks, his gaze wandering a little further down the beach as Wales settles himself back into his seat.

"Trying to dig to Australia, apparently."

Slightly concerned that his brother might be disappointed when he learnt that such an undertaking was impossible, Wales had tried to gently disabuse him of the notion, citing the vast distances involved and inherent difficulties in attempting to breach the earth's crust armed only with a small plastic spade. Northern Ireland had looked at him somewhat incredulously, and then said, "It's just a game, Dylan," in a measured way that suggested he thought Wales may have some trouble understanding the concept if it wasn't explained to him slowly. Wales had ended the conversation unsure which of the two of them was more embarrassed for him.

Scotland gives a soft snort. "He's not doing a very good job of it."

Having carefully noted his brother's position earlier, Wales spots him easily despite the crowds of other children running, playing and digging their own tunnels to far-flung locales around him. He seems to have given up on his own excavation project, however, and is sitting on the edge of the hole, occasionally flicking at the sand desultorily, whilst his eyes are fixed on some point a little to the right of Wales and Scotland, amongst the ranks of sunbathers settled in front of the seawall.

Wales doesn't know whether to laugh or groan when he realises exactly where the precise angle of Northern Ireland's head suggests he is looking. The sound that finally emerges from his throat is a confused, slightly strangled mixture of both, which causes Scotland to glance towards him with what appears to be some concern.

There is none evident in his voice, though, when he barks, "What the fuck's the matter with you?"

"Haven't you noticed what Micheal's gawping at?" Wales asks, thinking he'd best go and distract Northern Ireland somehow before anyone gets uncomfortable, if they haven't already.

Scotland's gaze flits to Northern Ireland, and then follows his line of sight for a moment before drifting back to Wales once more. He shrugs one huge shoulder and then shakes his head, his expression one of complete bafflement.

Wales' body somehow finds even more heat to direct towards his face, despite the fact that it had already felt to be about the same temperature as the surface of the sun. "It seems to be…" Wales pauses to take a fortifying nibble of his ice cream before finishing in a rush: "Those three young ladies who passed us a little while ago."

Scotland's eyebrows concertina into even thicker knots of confusion. "Which young ladies? There are quite a few of them."

"The, um, very statuesque ones," Wales clarifies weakly, wishing now that he hadn't even tried to explain himself. Over two millennia old, and it's still embarrassing to admit to his brother that he notices such things. His only consolation is that Scotland is likely just as embarrassed, having displayed on many occasions his discomfort at being reminded of that very same fact. "With the… The rather, erm, rather small bikinis."

There's not even a scintilla of recognition in Scotland's eyes, but then again, Wales has always suspected that there are some things about which he is blinkered to the point of tunnel vision.

"Isn't he a bit too young to be interested in that sort of thing," Scotland ventures after mulling Wales' information over for a time.

It's always difficult to judge what age a nation might be if they were a human – especially one as tall and spindly as Northern Ireland – but Wales reckons him to have reached the development of a nine or ten-year-old by now; eleven at a stretch. It's even more difficult to remember what thoughts had filled his own head at a similar stage of maturity, however.

On further reflection, however, he's fairly certain both he and Scotland had started taking exactly that sort of interest in France when they, in turn, reached that particular phase of their lives.

"Perhaps not," Wales says, and it's a slightly horrifying thought that will inexorably lead towards further discussions with Northern Ireland of the type that he would rather avoid, but will doubtless find himself having anyway because no one else will.

Scotland frowns and then he raises his voice to a bellow that was designed to carry across battlefields, and so it easily cuts through the cacophony of delighted squeals, laughter, and excited chatter surrounding Northern Ireland. "Mikey. Here. Now."

Northern Ireland reacts to the tone with just as much unthinking obedience as Wales ever did, instantly jumping to his feet and starting to run, and he reaches Scotland's side before the final word has even finished being vocalised.

Scotland doesn't praise him for his prompt response – he never does – he simply glowers at their little brother's bowed head as Northern Ireland looks diffidently down at his bare feet, and snaps, "You shouldn't stare at people. It's fucking rude."

Northern Ireland nods briskly, and his shoulders hunch, back stiffening, obviously preparing himself for the clout Scotland would usually reinforce such admonishments with. But it doesn't come. Instead, Scotland simply inclines his head towards the deckchair England had been using earlier and tells Northern Ireland to, "Sit down, and keep your mouth shut and your eyes to yourself," before getting back to finishing his own Flake-less 99 before it liquefies completely.

This command is obeyed with no less speed than the last, but with a great deal more petulant scowling and stomping of feet (not an easy task on sand, but Northern Ireland manages it somehow; an ingenuity that Wales silently admires).

Almost immediately afterwards, Northern Ireland starts rubbing his hand in small, distracted circles over his belly, as though trying to sooth a growling stomach. Given that Northern Ireland has become a bottomless pit as far as food is concerned over the past few years – a propensity England has been hoping that he will grow out of as quickly as he grew into it given the size of their recent grocery bills – the fact that he's hungry is much less of a surprise as when he'd turned down the offer of an ice cream in the first place.

Wales sighs heavily, and then hands Northern Ireland the Flake he'd been saving.

A moment later, Scotland does the same.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>6th July, 1976; London, England**

-  
>"What's he doing with all those books?" Scotland asks, somewhat suspiciously, as Northern Ireland trots past the living room en route from the library, clutching yet another encyclopaedia to his narrow chest.<p>

"Reading them, I should imagine," England says without looking up from The Times. "It is why we got them, after all."

Specifically, they had been bought in the hopes that Northern Ireland might consult them rather than any of his brothers if he had a question of a more intimate nature. A worthy endeavour, to Wales' mind, though he did worry that the scholarly nature of the articles may be a little too hard to digest for his brother, thus rendering them unfit for purpose; a feeling that had only intensified after the events of the previous weekend.

To rectify matters, he had only yesterday borrowed some more straightforward explanatory pamphlets detailing matters adolescent from his current beau, Jeremy – who had also insisted on lending Wales a book about deep breathing and visualisation exercises with the promise that it would 'change his life' – and sprinkled them throughout the volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica that he thought Northern Ireland would be most drawn to.

Scotland still looks sceptical. "But they don't have any pictures."

"They're full of pictures," England argues.

"Aye, diagrams and the like. Not comics and –"

"Just be glad he's learning," England interrupts sharply, holding his newspaper a little tighter.

'And not asking any questions,' remains unsaid, but is implicit all the same.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>7th July, 1976; London, England**

-  
>Wales feels distinctly put upon, singled out, and, above all, duped.<p>

He had been lured into the conversation he's sure he's about to have under false pretences, reeled in by Northern Ireland's apparent anxiety about his goldfish's erratic swimming patterns. The fish, it transpired, was perfectly healthy; the real concern lay in the papers that were scattered over Northern Ireland's desk and bed.

Papers that are covered in notes written in Northern Ireland's unmistakable scrawl, and illustrated with the same unsteady hand. Despite the sloppiness of the lines, Wales can still easily recognise the cross-sectional representation of a uterus, which has been circled repeatedly with a bright red pen.

His heart sinks, though only in resignation and not fear. At least this time, he'd been somewhat prepared.

Accordingly, he asks, "What do you want to know, North?" after his brother eases the door shut behind them.

Northern Ireland looks slightly taken aback, but his hesitance is only momentary. "Why do I have a bellybutton if I don't have a mum?"

It is… Not the question Wales had been expecting. Not even close. The breath he had taken to give answer he had assumed would be required escapes uselessly from his mouth in a thin sigh.

His confusion must show clearly on his face, because Northern Ireland shakes his head despondently. "You don't know, do you?"

"Of course I do," Wales says, out of a reflexive desire not to disappoint his brother. "We…" Northern Ireland's eyes narrow when Wales pauses. "The thing is…" Then he crosses his arms tightly across his chest, painting such a perfect picture of an irritated Scotland in miniature that Wales can't help but laugh, which only serves to make Northern Ireland's scowl deepen and the resemblance increase.

"Wales," Northern Ireland whines plaintively, obviously thinking that his enquiry isn't being considered with the seriousness it deserves.

"Sorry," Wales says when he manages to get his laughter under control again. "It's just…" There seems to be little point in obfuscating, because, this time, there's really nothing he either needs or wants to conceal. "We just do, North. Humans imagined us into being and gave us human form, and humans have belly buttons. So I guess that's why we do too. "

"Oh." Northern Ireland looks thoughtful for a moment, before announcing, "That's crap."

Wales chuckles again. "It is, but I don't know any better reason than that, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Northern Ireland says again, sounding even more disappointed. "What if I asked Scotland instead?"

"He'd probably tell you to piss off. England, on the other hand, would tell you exactly the same thing I have."

Northern Ireland seems to accept this with a sort of weary resignation, shoulders drooping as he nods his head dejectedly.

"There isn't anything else you want to ask, is there?" Wales finds himself asking for no earthly reason he can ascertain save perhaps some manifestation of the same subliminal sense of brotherly duty that occasionally inspires him to defend England even when he's being an unconscionable wanker. "About those young ladies at the beach last weekend, perhaps?" Wales voice continues, seemingly of its own accord.

"No," Northern Ireland says, looking confused himself now. And, then, slightly hesitantly: "Should there be?"

"Not that I can think of," Wales lies, with no small relief.


End file.
